They have flown in another direction,
    Who used to clack-clack by the hour
Of “this awful Freetrade and Protection,”
    Of our dear darling member “in power,”
And the Higher Religion for Dossers,
    And the Need of an Object for Drunks—
Now they’re all of them Red or Blue Crossers,
    With their tails sticking out of their trunks.

There are citified Martins in dozens—
    The Darling Point Martins the pick—
Who used to be horrified cousins
    Of a Martin we knew as “Mad Mick.”
He is hanging out somewhere where French is;
    But they heard he’d enlisted—somehow,
And ’twould paralyse Mick in the trenches
    To know how he’s glorified now.

You remember the George Henry Crosses?
    They’ve packed up twelve trunks in despair.
He’s the boss of the back-station bosses,
    And Ernie’s the son and the heir.
He has never put hands on a wether,
    Nor heard a pithed store-bullock grunt;
So they’re taking the mailboat to England
    To see Ernie safe to the Front.

And each of the war-going parsons
    Costs many a heart-breaking tear—
Like that caddish young cub of old Carson’s,
    All found and four hundred a year.
He feels not a word that he preaches,
    But he will not be criticised there,
Where, out where the flying shell screeches,
    Poor Tommy must fight, sweat and swear.

“Our relatives, too” (hang the Censor!)
    Each girl has a tear on her cheek.
Cousin Roger has gone as dispenser
    (Expenses and three pounds a week.
More risky than list’ning to sermons,
    As some of our fellows will find,
Is a fierce fortnight’s fight with the Germans
    In front—and with Roger behind.)

And the Girls, they are writing like blazes,
    And Auntie is moaning like hell;
And I wish I was under the daisies—
    Or the bluegum would do just as well.
So I want to be wropped in me blanket,
    And buried down—deep down—below;
Where this cant and this cackle won’t reach me—
    In the land where the coolibahs grow.